


everything i tried to leave behind

by LittleDragonPrince



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Bipolar Disorder, Canon Bisexual Character, Gen, Light Dialogue, M/M, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Snapshots, Time Skips, at least for the first chapters, i tag literally every fic with that god im predictable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-01 23:57:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10932690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleDragonPrince/pseuds/LittleDragonPrince
Summary: People knew his name, they greeted him as they passed him by in the hallway, he even got invited to parties.  And all it took was four hundred bucks – who would have guessed it?Snapshots of the life of the real Richard Goranski.





	1. with a cookie as a coaster

**Author's Note:**

> you: stop writing new fics and finish your old ones  
> me, seven hundred wips saved to my computer, each belonging to a different fandom: but my brand
> 
> anyways this musical is my new Favorite Thing. i already hve three chapters planned so this'll get finished, soon, hopefully.
> 
> content warnings for ableism, drinking, parental neglect, self harm, the whole kit and kaboodle. i'll explain some of my Choices~ in the end note. it should probs go without saying but i'll reiterate as always: sometimes characters say ableist or nasty things in my writing, thats not how i feel, and also my experience w/ mental illness as depicted here isnt the Only experience w/ mental illness that is valid its just my one experience.
> 
> aight anyways! as ALWAYS i ain't got a beta so if u see a grammar error!!! just hit me UP!!!! and i'll fix it

Richard Maximilian Goranski was not what one would describe as a _graceful_ child, but that didn’t stop him from being an active one.  Most of his childhood photos depicted him, gap-toothed and pigeon-toed, body smudged with dirt and bruises alike.  By the time he reached 2 nd grade, he had already broken two different bones, and one of them had been broken twice (once while trying to make his bicycle do a wheelie, and then yet again when he decided to climb the big red oak at the playground.)

His childhood photos were kept in a Merrell’s shoebox – first in a cabinet in the mudroom, then in the attic, and finally in Richard’s bedroom, when he stole them back at age eleven.  He liked to wade through them all sometimes, the only solid reminder he had of life before the 1st grade; it’s not often he considered his forgetfulness a virtue, but forgetting his early childhood always _felt_ like one.

Four years after his birth, Richard’s mother passed away from a respiratory disease he never managed to learn the full name of, and four years after _that_ , his step-mother entered the picture.  At age eight, he wasn’t particularly close to his father, and he imagined that had always been the case; for better or for worse, he accepted the estrangement and the awkward dinners that only got less frequent as the years went by.  The drinking, on the other hand… well, it was harder to deal with, but by that point, Richard was struggling with so many _other_ shitty things, it was fairly routine.

Most of these other problems came from school.  Mainly his inability to do well in it, or make friends, or get through one single day without taking a nap in the nurse’s office because of a mysterious “headache” he just couldn’t shake. 

His 6th grade math teacher cornered him about it one day, after an entire class spent tearing a water bottle label up into tiny pieces which he tried to sweep, surreptitiously, onto the carpet.

“Are you feeling alright, Richard?” she had asked, bent over with her hands on her knees to look smaller, less intimidating; he at least had the decency to be embarrassed about the mess he made and shifted sheepishly in his chair, “You seemed… unfocused, during class. More so than usual.”

“Uh, yes,” he stammered (he hadn’t learnt, yet, to avoid words with the letter ‘s’ in them), suddenly anxious to leave the classroom and move on.  “Sorry, I’m just. Tired.”

Her brow furrowed, and he cursed inside his own head – of _course_ she saw right through that.  “You say you’re tired a _lot_ , Richard – are things alright at home?” she said the sentence very slowly, exceedingly softly, and an abrupt pang of anger hit him.

“Yeah, no, it’s _fine,_ ” he said with as much force as his not-even-five-foot-one self could muster, “Can I – can I go to English class now, Mrs. Zimmerman?”

His change in demeanor must have shocked her, because her only response was a quick, wide-eyed nod.  Richard had grabbed his bookbag and stormed out in the least-flustered manner he could manage, and tried not to make a mess in any more classrooms just to avoid the concern of his teachers.

Winter break that year came and went, and when he returned to school after Christmas, his demeanor had changed notably.  Instead of sleeping through class, he found himself vibrating in his seat.  He babbled incessantly to anyone who would listen – which, honestly, didn’t help him make friends in _any_ regard.  He acted like a little kid again, scraping his knees and climbing up trees.  It felt like _magic_ , like he’d gone back in time to before he could remember, and he did stop remembering most things; stopped really noticing when people were talking to him or when he was getting hungry or when he needed sleep or when he had been standing in the shower for two hours, distracted by the sounds in his own head.

The school called his father in and recommended he be screened for attention deficit disorder, and – sitting next to his dad in the nurse’s office that Thursday afternoon – it almost seemed like he _would_.  But as they piled into their 79 Toyota Pickup, his dad glared at him from the driver’s seat.

“I’m not taking you to a shrink,” he snapped, and Richard’s heart would have sunk into the bottom of his feet if he could still feel it, beating so rapidly in his chest, “That’s a _fake_ disorder they made up – they, they wanna say every kid got somethin’ wrong with them instead of actually doing their _damn_ jobs and teachin’.”

“You’re right, dad,” replied Richard, because that was how he always replied when he was in 6th grade, not yet big or brave or dumb enough to pick fights with adults.  The conversation ended, the silence between them broken only by the roar of the old air conditioner, and wasn’t revisited for another year or so.

The summer between 7th and 8th grade, Richard turned thirteen with little to no fanfare. His gift to himself was a mixtape of illegally downloaded indie rock music, burned onto an old CD.  His step-mom made him a cake, which was admittedly delicious, and his father got him some new clothes.  He hadn’t thrown a party, had been too embarrassed by the fact that none of his peers would have shown up, so he spent the entirety of July 30th justifying the procrastination of his summer reading work with the fact it was his birthday.

The medication happened during the autumn of 8th grade, despite his father’s dragging feet and general distrust of psychiatrists, when Richard had passed out in gym class from dehydration and sleep deprivation.  He told the nurses the truth, because he wasn’t big or brave or dumb enough to lie to doctors yet, about how he had felt like he was walking on air for weeks now, and how the magic in his bones would keep him alive more than food ever could.  He had insisted he was a time traveler, and they had insisted he had bipolar disorder, and so they sent him packing with a prescription for Prozac not a week later.

This did the opposite of what they wanted, made him so paranoid and high-strung he broke a pinky finger punching a hole in the drywall of his bedroom, and so he switched to Geodon – an antipsychotic he very staunchly pretended was _not_ an antipsychotic.  And _that_ did the trick; he mellowed out, started paying attention in class, and only gained about twenty-five pounds (which was low, apparently, for what pills like Geodon could make someone go through).

Freshman year of high school was… well, just as bad as school had always been, but for once it was mostly due to outside stressors, like his peers, and his teachers, and his dad’s ceaseless drinking habit.  Richard was so short and quiet and nervous, people barely bothered to even bully him; he’d be pushed into lockers with murmurs of slurs or uncreative insults based around his lisp, and people whispered about him in classrooms, but otherwise, he was invisible.

His teachers liked him well enough – he was abysmal at history, and getting by in science in with a B-minus average. His Algebra II class was going shockingly well, however, and his English teacher – a small, frenetic woman named Ms. Reyes – _adored_ him, which was slightly less shocking.  It was his best subject, after all, though he spent every class hunched over his notebook, trying to be as small as possible when she called for people to read a passage from whatever novel they were studying at the time.

Close to the end of first semester, they were reading something by Tennessee Williams, and Ms. Reyes had just finished explaining the symbolism of roses or the color blue or something equally banal when the bell rung to signify the period’s end.  Richard piled his books into his arms, kicking his chair out behind him to get ready to go to lunch, when she called his name.  He stiffened, frustration boiling hot in his veins for a second before letting a deep breath out through his nose, the way Dr. Campo always told him to.

“Yeah?” he called back to her as he turned, shuffling over to her desk at the front of the classroom.  She smiled at him, shuffled some papers in her hands, and then leaned forward on both her elbows as if breaking some very grave, exceedingly delicate news.  He prepped himself for the worst.

“Your semester grades are,” she paused, as if preparing herself for her next sentence; Richard stifled an eyeroll, “going to be posted tonight and they aren’t as high as they could have been – Richard, you’re an _amazing_ English student.  You write amazing essays, your analysis is fantastic, but you never volunteer to present or, or read to the class. You need to participate more for your grade to go up.”

“Yeah, well,” he huffed, focusing intently on the little Filipino flag that sat propped up on her desk, “Reading really ain’t my…” he paused, fished through his vocabulary to find a word he could pronounce without stammering and embarrassing himself, “uh, forte.”

His slow, deliberate way of speaking must have clued her into his reasons for staying so quiet during class; she sighed, eyes bright with sympathy, and Richard almost felt guilty for being so annoyed with her.  Almost _._

“I understand, Richard, things are… _hard_ for you,” Richard couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes this time; Ms. Reyes must have noticed, if the way her face hardened was any indication, “But you’re a good student.  I think you could be a great one.”

After a few more awkward moments of her trying to convince him of his _hidden potential_ and him being half-humble, half-pissed off, she finally let him go.

Lunch was eaten that day in the stairwell in the science wing.  In that way, at least, the day was ordinary.  He curled up on a step, trying to make himself even tinier than he naturally was, eating a cold ham sandwich and drinking dragonfruit vitamin water.  A group of very popular, _very_ cool upperclassmen paraded through the hall, raucous laughter echoing up and down the stair case in a way that made Richard’s ears hurt.  He ignored the jealousy that nestled, cold and hard like ice in his gut, and focused on being invisible.

He didn’t succeed, however; a Senior boy he recognized as Jonny Calhoun peeked over at him, intrigue in his eyes.  Richard tried to steel himself for the teasing, or the harassment, or maybe even the assault, but instead, Jonny paused and called to his herd of friends, “You guys go on ahead, I forgot something at my locker!”

There was a chorus of acknowledgement, swallowed up quickly by more giggling, and then the popular kids were gone and Richard was alone with Jonny.  He was an attractive kid, with well-styled red hair and an array of smudgy freckles all over his sun-kissed skin.  Richard completely understood why Jonny was the most beloved student in his grade; what he _didn’t_ understand was –

“Why are you talking to me?”

Jonny laughed easily at the defensiveness in Richard’s voice, throwing his head back flippantly.  “Easy, tiger,” he smirked; Richard bristled at the patronizing pet-name, “I just wanted to give you… a little advice.” He beamed like he had made some revolutionary joke. Maybe Jonny wasn’t so suave after all?  Something on Richard’s face must have given Jonny pause, because his face flushed a light shade of pink and he coughed out another, weaker laugh.  “I used to be a loser, just like -,” he jabbed a finger into Richard’s chest, “ _you.”_

“Wh – you – no way – _no_ ,” Richard managed to stutter out, face scrunched up in a frown, “You’re, like, the coolest guy.  Like, everyone _loves_ you.”

“Yeah, they do, and do you know why?” Jonny gave him another one of those grins, like he knew something Richard didn’t, like he was the brightest, funniest guy alive, “Because _I_ bought a _SQUIP_.”

“Uh... what?”

“Oh man, it’s this _pill –_ or, really, it’s like a computer, and you swallow it, and,” his laugh turned a little bit sharp and manic; Richard couldn’t help but feel weird, hearing someone else’s voice jitter like that, “You just gotta get yourself one.  Mine is telling me to tell you about it right now.  Just take four hundred dollars to the Payless Shoes at the Menlo Park Mall.  It’ll change your _life._ Seriously.”

Before he could ask another question, Jonny vanished, sprinting up the stairs after his friends, leaving Richard alone again, with just half a ham sandwich and a mostly-empty water bottle.

A week passed by, Richard tossing the idea around in his head – he was most likely being scammed, he was aware of this, but the potential to be cared about and noticed was too strong to override the common sense in him.  He decided, eventually, to work to save up the four hundred dollars.  Over winter break, he asked for money instead of Christmas gifts, and he started keeping the money he found on the ground instead of giving it to the lost-and-found at the school’s front desk, and – when he felt gutsy enough – he’d steal some dollars from his step-mom’s purse.  He even started working as an English tutor in the school library, which didn’t pay well, but was the only job a bipolar fourteen-year-old could _get_.

By some divine miracle, Richard had managed to scrounge up the cash, and he went straight to the mall with it to buy himself a SQUIP… whatever it ended up being.  He took it with Mountain Dew, as he had been instructed by the very moody-looking stock boy, and at first, he felt nothing.  He sat at the base of the red oak tree by the playground, where he broke his arm for the second time before 2nd grade, as dread began to creep up his spine.  Anger, guilt, and self-loathing made him dizzy, biting back frustrated tears as he curled up among the tree roots.

He was just about to storm off, return home to blow off steam with a video game or two, when the pain hit like a knife through his skull.  The scream that ripped through him was involuntary; his hands gripped at his hair, pushing and pulling in some wild, vain attempt to make whatever was _in_ his head get _out_.

The stabbing, electric sensation got worse before it got better, and Richard buried his mouth into his knees to muffle his yells and his sobs; he was beginning to fear he hadn’t just been scammed but instead poisoned when a voice – cool and calm, soothing compared to the fiery pain that had vanished as quickly as it had appeared – rang through his skull.

“Richard Goranski,” spoke the voice; he only blinked in response, still too shell-shocked to speak, “Hello, and welcome to your Super Quantum Unit Intel Processor – but you may call me your SQUIP.  And I think... I’ll call you _Rich.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kay some Cool Notes about the writing process of chapter 1
> 
> \- what happened to rich, where they mistook his mania for adhd, was something tht happened to me! so that's why i wrote it in here  
> \- rich is very specifically a leo i had to include this factoid in there because leo rich is the hill i will die on in this fandom  
> \- i had a speech impediment growing up (couldn't say my th's and instead said them like f's - therapy has erased this from my speech for the Most Part) and so get ready for sum good old Projection on This Boy right here  
> \- his middle name is maximilian because i watched too much yugioh duel monsters before writing this ok.  
> \- the tennessee williams book i mention is glass menagerie, a book i've never even read a sentence of  
> \- i read somewhere this musical takes place in 2018 so i'm going w/ that so rich woulda been born in 2001!!
> 
> anyways chapter 2 will be all about life With The Squip, and chapter 3 is life post the squip. if you wanna talk to me about this musical, my writing, or anything at all, my twitter is @burnhounds (i'm locked right now but will always accept reqs)


	2. don't you need me, oh baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for biphobia from the SQUIP & underage drinking !!!
> 
> rich/jake is so good y'all.
> 
> anyhow i went back and edited chapter 1 to remove some mistakes and i also added a summary ( i forgot...to make a summary for this fic when i first posted it OTL)
> 
> again, read the end notes for Cool Fun Facts about what i'm writing !

For the first time in his life, things were going _well_ for Rich – and it was _just_ Rich, nowadays.  He hadn’t called himself Richard since 9 th grade.  He had completely changed, in ways that he didn’t even know would be necessary to be happy, and now he had _friends._ People knew his name, they greeted him as they passed him by in the hallway, he even got invited to parties.  And all it took was four hundred bucks – who would have guessed it?

It started with his lisp of course.  Then came his clothing, and the red streak in his hair, and soon he stopped standing pigeon-toed and didn’t need medication anymore and never snorted when he laughed.  The longer he went with the SQUIP, the more it became synced up with his brain chemistry and his thoughts; sometimes it got hard to tell what was the SQUIP and what was his own mind.

The big turning point was befriending Jake Dillinger – they were in the same English class, one all about literature from throughout South and North America, and one day after Thanksgiving break, the SQUIP piped up.

“Sit next to Jake today.”

“What?” he responded, inside of his own head (he had learned, pretty quickly, that talking _aloud_ to the SQUIP got him in trouble), “No, he’s, like, way too cool.”

“Just trust me, okay?” it murmured; it hadn’t failed him before, though, so with a nervous shrug, he slumped into the desk beside Jake, who acknowledged him with a barely perceptible nod.  Their English teacher, Mr. Tremblay, began his introductory spiel, passing back some quizzes on ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’ they had taken just three days prior.  Jake groaned when he saw his result; a 42% scrawled in red marker, right at the top of the page.  Rich glanced down at his own sheet to see a 100 staring back at him.

“Nice job,” Rich tried to hide his shock at being spoken to by Jake, of all people, who was craning his neck to stare at Rich’s quiz; his face didn’t look mocking, and his voice sounded sincere as he said, “I suck _ass_ at this class, dude, how do you do it?”

“Uh,” Rich started; after some prompting from the SQUIP, he said, “It’s not too tricky when you know where to look online, and shit, for resources and notes and junk.”  This was a lie, of course.  Rich was good at English because he _liked_ English (though the SQUIP did help).

Jake seemed to buy it, though; his eyebrows raised on his face.  “Huh,” he noted, with another, smaller nod; then a smile spread across his face, and Rich couldn’t help but notice that he had only one dimple, on his left cheek, “Cool.  You should, uh, hit me up with that shit sometime, it’d be awesome not to be failing this class anymore, y’know.”

“Yeah,” Rich replied, a little bit breathless.  He managed to keep his cool enough to continue, “Course, dude.  Be happy to. And – my name’s Rich.”  He held out one hand in a fist as a greeting.  Jake beamed – the dimple on his face growing more pronounced – and tapped his knuckles against Rich’s.  The rest was history.

The two grew steadily closer from that day on, and Rich elevated himself from being well-liked in the Sophomore class to actively respected and, after some prompting from the SQUIP, feared.  At first, the guilt ate at him – the way the less popular kids would flinch away from him in the hallways, the kids he left shaking in his wake as he shoved his way through the school – but the SQUIP assured him this was the _only way_ to make people notice him.  “You’re so small,” it had said once, after Rich had made one particularly mousy Freshman cry, “It’s a miracle anybody sees you at all.”

So Rich got through Sophomore year by learning to act bigger and braver and _dumber_ than he was.  His science grades were better than they ever had been, and he wasn’t failing out of history any longer, but sometimes the SQUIP made him make mistakes – tactical ones, it would explain, ones that were for the greater good.

One such occasion occurred during pre-calculus, a course Rich was doing passably well in, as he was taking a pop quiz.  It was multiple choice – shouldn’t’ve been too difficult, it _wasn’t_ too difficult – when the SQUIP announced itself. “Choose the third option.”

“But…” Rich thought to himself, eyebrows knitting together, “that’s not the right answer? It’s the second option that’s correct.”

“Just,” he could hear the annoyance in the SQUIP’s voice, and tried to pretend he didn’t flinch away from it, “trust me, alright?  A kid with your reputation, who spends all his time picking on _nerds_ , doesn’t look too cool if he’s some kind of huge math fan.”

Rich would hardly consider himself a _huge math fan_ , but the thought of denying the SQUIP nowadays was nauseating; he circled the third option, and tried not to be disappointed when the quiz returned marked with an 85%.

“Damn,” Jake said to him after class, holding his own returned pop quiz, “I got a 90. I mean, like, that’s good, but I thought I did better.”

“Y’did better than me,” snickered Rich, suddenly understanding the extent of the SQUIP’s plan, “85, bro.”  Upon learning Rich’s score, Jake smiled slightly, offering a consolatory shrug in his best friend’s direction.  The look on his face was soft, amused and fond, and Rich noticed, not for the first time, the little patches of hazel in his blue eyes, and the crooked tooth not quite completely hidden by his lower lip, and, _oh man,_ his lips –

A jolt of pain, sharp and sudden, traveled up Rich’s spine; he barely contained the wince.  He missed the look of concern on Jake’s face, too distracted by the SQUIP verbally scolding him now for getting ‘distracted.’

This happened a few more times throughout 10th grade: Jake and Rich would be relaxing together, and Jake would say or do something endearing, and Rich would let his mind wander a little too far until the SQUIP reminded him that, _no_ , pining after a guy wasn’t something a _cool_ high school student would do.  Eventually he stopped having to be reminded, but the thoughts still nagged at him sometimes, late at night.

“You alright, bro?” Jake asked him, taking a swig of Diet Pepsi.  They were sitting in Jake’s bedroom at quarter to midnight, the pause screen for Grand Theft Auto the only light source in the room.  Jake had caught Rich spacing out, and it was entirely thanks to the SQUIP that he didn’t blush or stammer or embarrass himself even more.

“Yeah, man, I’m good,” he answered, shrugging just one shoulder, “Just like, stressed about finals, y’know.”

Jake let out a loud, sympathetic sigh, his usual crooked grin stretched lazily on his face.  “Man, I feel that!” he whooped. He floundered for a moment in his beanbag chair, trying to stand; Rich barely suppressed a snort of amusement, “But after this, we’re Juniors! _So_ close to graduating, bro!”

Rich gave a quiet yet confident whoop back, content to lay back on his elbows and watch Jake putter out of the room and down the stairs.  He was gone for a few minutes, before returning with two cans of what appeared to be really cheap beer.

“You want some?” he asked, offering one to Rich after he had sat down.

“Oh, uh,” Rich started to decline, started to explain that he didn’t drink, not when his dad had become so easily addicted, but then his hand moved without him telling it to, and the can was sweaty and cold in his hand.  So instead, he managed a weak and nervous, “Thanks.”

Jake tipped his can in Rich’s direction by way of saying ‘you’re welcome’, and popped it open with a satisfying hiss.  Rich, meanwhile, just stared at his in vague anxiety, though Jake thankfully didn’t notice his hesitation, already starting in on a ramble about something or other.

Alcohol was something Rich had to learn to tolerate as the months went on.  High school parties nearly always involved it in some capacity, and it certainly wasn’t socially acceptable to stay sober at one unless you were the designated driver, which he absolutely never was.  The biggest downside, other than the guilt and nervousness that clung to him whenever he chose to drank, was that the alcohol would shut the SQUIP down at parties, and Rich was left alone with just his own thoughts and his own personality.  He tried to make himself scarce when he got too drunk, because then his lisp would come back out, and he’d start saying ridiculous shit, and _God,_ by the end of Sophomore year, he wasn’t sure how to talk without being told what to say.

Rich and Jake, as two of the most popular guys at school, attended prom as Sophomores.  Jake went with a Senior girl – an honor student who had skipped a year and was well-liked in different social circles than the ones they usually hung in.  Rich’s date, on the other hand, was a squirrely Junior who was already smashed on strawberry wine coolers by the time the photos were taken.  He managed to remain sober throughout the entire main event, but then after-prom swung around, and he was sipping peppermint schnapps on the porch of some random upperclassman’s house.

“Hey, there you are, bro!” Jake greeted him, a little bit tipsy from his own cheap drinks; Rich snorted out a laugh before he could stop himself, “I’ve been lookin’ for you!”

“Well, you found me,” Rich joked back, and Jake cackled despite it being barely funny at all. “What’s up, Jakey-D?”

“I’m tired of this party,” he admitted, dropping down to sit next to Rich on the porch.  His flushed face was obscured a bit by the darkness and the glow of the party behind them, “Lisa Sutherland spilled vodka on me and now I reek of artificial sour apple.”

“That blows, dude,” Rich said, and Jake just laughed some more, and the two fell into easy conversation soon enough.  Their banter was interrupted by a couple – utterly shitfaced – stumbling out onto the porch to make-out.  Rich couldn’t hide his grimace, and Jake rolled his eyes fondly before grabbing Rich by the hood of his coat and dragging him out to the edge of the property, where the suburbs met the woods.

They sat in the grass, Rich still nursing his drink, as Jake tried to ring the last of the candy-scented vodka from his shirt.  “Should I play some music?” he suggested, shaking his damp hands.  Rich nodded after a moment of consideration, and Jake’s face split into a grin so big it looked painful.  “Sweet, we can have our _own_ after-prom out here.”

He pulled out his phone and began to flip through his music library, plunging the two into a comfortable almost-silence, the only noise being the distant thumping of the party’s music.  Rich was staring up at the light polluted sky, flat and navy blue, when Jake’s music selection began to play.

“This is…” Rich began, shock flooding his senses as the first few chords of a bubblegum pop song began to play, “Dude, what _is_ this?”

“Carly Rae Jepsen,” Jake replied, so instantly, so unabashedly, that Rich forgot to realize how _uncool_ this all was.  Instead, he laughed, the loud and ugly kind he used to do in Freshman year, and swallowed another swig of minty alcohol to hide it.  Jake gratefully didn’t say anything, focused instead on bopping his knees to the sound of the music, arms swinging drunkenly at his sides.  “C’mon, bro, get up! Dance!  It’s prom!”

“Dude, prom ended an hour ago,” Rich huffed with an eyeroll that wasn’t as exasperated as he tried to make it.  When Jake didn’t look convinced, he puffed up his chest and declared, “Either way, I don’t dance!”

The soft ‘c’ came out as a ‘th’, and Rich felt his blood run cold at his mistake.  His own visible embarrassment gave Jake pause; his half-assed dancing ceased, and he tilted his head curiously down at Rich.

“Did you,” he started and halted, as if considering his words very carefully, “Do you have a lisp, man?”

“Only when I drink,” replied Rich, in a careful attempt at nonchalance, “Which is why I don’t drink that much, y’know.”

Jake just nodded in understanding, and Rich was about to try to break the awkward atmosphere that had settled between them when the SQUIP came back online with a jolt, seemingly awakened by Rich’s drastic drop in mood.

Prom night of Sophomore year ended with Rich hooking up with Lisa Sutherland’s twin sister, and he never brought up the Carly Rae Jepsen album on Jake’s phone, and Jake never brought up his drunken lisp.  Things went back to how they had always been, though for the first two weeks of summer, Rich wasn’t sure if he really preferred things that way.

Junior year started with Rich tormenting Jeremy Heere, an anxious, twiggy kid who spent all of his time with another boy lacking in any kind of social standing who Rich never bothered to learn the name of.  He’d push Jeremy whenever he passed him in the hallways, calling out degrading nicknames that trailed after him as he walked, head down and shoulders stiff, through the school.  It wasn’t long, however, before his SQUIP pressured him to teach Jeremy where to get a SQUIP of his own – and it had been so long since the SQUIP had had to give him a verbal command, it had become so second nature to follow directions, that it physically pained him, had him writing where he stood in the boys’ bathroom.

“Hey, SQUIP,” he pondered to himself and to the supercomputer in his brain later that day, “Whatever happened to Jonny? Y’know, the dude who told me where to find you.”

There was a moment of calculated silence, before it responded, “He was wildly successful at college, of course.”

“Was?”

“Don’t worry about it, Rich,” the SQUIP said, not comforting at all, “ _You_ aren’t Jonny.  Whatever he chose to do after high school has nothing to _do_ with you.”

Rich – well, he tried to think about the subject more, but the SQUIP would send a zap of pain down to base of his spine each time.  In the end, he decided to let it drop.  There were a lot of things Rich had to drop: he stopped listening to the music he actually liked, replaced by classic rock and hip-hop; he shopped exclusively at skate shops, made to throw away nearly all the clothing he had owned previously; his thoughts, when they were a little too tender or giddy or sad, would always inevitably be interrupted by the electric stabbing pain of being forced to forget.

“What costume do you think you’re gonna wear for the party, man?” Jake asked him one day, sprawled out on his stomach on the beanbag chair, sipping some root beer from a paper Subway cup. “I’m going as Prince to match with Christine.”

Rich ignored the jealousy that hit him instinctively (alongside the desire to ask what could _possibly_ be the other half of a Prince costume), focusing instead on answering the question.  “I’m thinking…” he drawled, dragging out the word as his SQUIP went through all the possibilities; it settled on, “Jason Voorhees.  Y’know, from the movies.”

“Mm, yeah!” Jake hummed back, face lit up, “That’ll be sick, bro.  I can’t wait for this party.”  He flailed awkwardly on the beanbag for a moment, trying to squirm up onto his knees so he could stand and turn the television on.  “What do you wanna play?”

His first thought was Mario Party, but the SQUIP shook its theoretical head at that idea.  Instead it prompted him to ask to play Halo, and Jake gave him a grin and thumbs up, and Rich was left feeling very decidedly unenthusiastic.  He didn’t really like first-person-shooters, preferring party games and RPGs immensely.

“I don’t get it,” he asked the SQUIP, making sure to keep his face void of the frustration he was feeling, “He owns those games.  He must _play_ them. It’s just us two, why can’t I be allowed to even _think_ about-,”

“You also think about wanting to kiss Jake, do you think you should be allowed to think that?” The SQUIP shot back, and suddenly he was very aware of how cold he felt, how bad his head hurt, how his head had been hurting nonstop since he was fifteen, “I’m not just trying to make you _look_ cool, kid, I’m trying to make it a reality.  Don’t get in the way of that, just trust me.”

And Rich didn’t trust it.  Not really, not anymore, but the alternative meant trusting _himself_ , and that was impossible.

The Halloween party arrived after several days of feeling put off and anxious.  His head didn’t feel like his own – it wasn’t, really, it hadn’t been since Freshman year – and the music was so loud and so _shitty_ , and Jake was smiling, nervous and crooked and unsure, at Christine fucking Canigula of all people – Rich had given up so much to make Jake notice him, and _she_ just got to be _herself_.  The SQUIP wouldn’t even let him drink to ease his nerves, obviously not trusting Rich on his own that night, and he hated that he wanted to drink, he hated that he couldn’t even think about how he was feeling without being punished, he hated his costume and his voice and the things he was saying to this girl sitting on his lap –

God, he hated _himself._   Nothing had changed, really, he was still that sweaty, miserable Freshman who ate alone in the stairwell every day.  None of this was real.

“Hey, Richard,” the SQUIP warned, voice so cold it made him feel like he was on fire, “Calm the hell down, alright?  What’s your plan?”

He glanced at his hands, or what looked and felt like his hands but _weren’t,_ not really; he stood up on shaking legs, tried to excuse himself with a voice that didn’t belong to him, stumbled down into the living room.  The SQUIP continued to yell at him, tugging at his limbs to try to make him slow down. He pulled himself into the living room, desperate for the one thing he knew would save him, but of course it wasn’t there, of course nobody could help him, and he could hear them laugh at him as he stormed into the kitchen.  He continued to hear laughter even after the door was closed, and the music seemed to crescendo, and the SQUIP was still just _screaming_ at him.

But he couldn’t afford to be distracted by the sounds in his own head, he had to keep moving, and then he spotted the box of matches sitting on the counter, used to light some candles that were scattered throughout the upstairs.  He snatched them up – ignored the SQUIP screaming no, ignored the SQUIP for the first time in a long time – and fumbled, for a minute, to pull a single matchstick out.

He dragged the match along the outside of the box, watched it ignite, and for once his brain was finally _quiet_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok ok ok
> 
> \- i forgot to say this last time tho i Meant To, but the respiratory disease rich's mother passed away from was idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis.  
> \- jake liking carly rae jepsen is a headcanon i THINK i got from tumblr user gayradwhitedad fjdkjfd and i love this h/c a lot, i love jake dillinger.  
> \- i'm actually like not 1000% sure...how rich got rid of his SQUIP...cuz i dont think he got any mtn dew red at that party? so uhh i ended this kind of ambiguously.
> 
> yet again feel free to hit me up on twitter dot corn at @burnhounds, we can talk about bmc or anything else rlly !!


	3. i'm so happy without your noise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jake, who drove him anywhere he needed to be without complaint. Jake, who carried his backpack whenever his injuries were making him extra uncomfortable. Jake, who laughed at even his worst jokes, and let him take ages to pronounce words with the letter ‘s’ in them, and never made snide comments about his absent father.
> 
> Jake, who Rich had been secretly in love with for nearly two years straight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so like. i'm 99% sure rich would be facing criminal charges for Arson, but im not sure how criminal procedures for arson Work, so i just like didn't touch on it. in my h/c, jake probably - as an olive branch to rich, to show he's not mad at him for what happened - gets in touch w/ lawyers and makes it clear he's not pressing charges and even tries to convince law enforcement that rich didn't really have THAT much to do with the house fire.
> 
> i didnt talk about that headcanon in fic though because, again, i know NOTHING about how that shit works and i didnt wanna embarrass myself with a guess.
> 
> ANYWAYS we in the home stretch !!! this chapter is just. a bunch of sweet fluffy bullshit honestly. only content warning i can think to give is discussion of injury and hospitalization, at the very start, and maybe also discussion of alcoholism re: rich's dad

The longest stay Rich ever had in a hospital was following the events of Halloween Junior year.  The smoke had damaged his lungs, the fire had left severe burns on most of his body, and he’d fractured his scapula as he tried to escape from the wreckage of Jake’s house.  His _mental_ health was also brought up – because _of course_ it was – and he told the doctors he hadn’t been taking his medication lately, which wasn’t really a lie.  He left out any information about the SQUIP, knew they’d just accuse him of being delusional, and something about that made his chest ache in a way not even the fire had.  In the end, he was given a higher dosage of Geodon, alongside Paxil, to help with what the doctors referred to as ‘explosive anger issues’.  The hospital deferred his new medication until after his body had recovered, however – they claimed they didn’t want any adverse interactions between the anti-depressants and the various pain medications he’d have to be on as he recuperated.

He wasn’t complaining.  He wasn’t really sure he had the right to.

Jeremy Heere showed up the morning after the SQUIP stopped talking for _good_ – though it honestly hadn’t been too chatty during his first week of hospital stay, it probably considered him a lost cause (at least they agreed on _something_ ) – but didn’t wake up for three whole days, during which his best and only friend visited constantly.  He didn’t introduce himself, either unaware that Rich never bothered to learn his name, or just not interested in talking to him aside from explaining how the SQUIP had finally been defeated at the school play.

Rich would later find out the kid’s name was _Michael_. Jeremy told him shortly after waking up.  Things were awkward between them, unsurprisingly, but Jeremy was never cold or unkind to Rich, which was the best he could really ask for. Equally unsurprising was the fact that Jeremy was discharged from the hospital far before Rich – he was out of the building just two days after waking up.

“So,” Rich said as Jeremy adjusted the shirt he was wearing, finally out of the thin paper gowns the hospital handed to patients, “They’re letting you go free, huh?”

“Uh, yep,” Jeremy replied, unable to hide the nervousness in his voice. Rich didn’t bother pointing it out.

“You lucky bastard,” he sneered in what he hoped was a fond and joking voice; if Jeremy’s exasperated eyeroll was any indication, it was.  He shifted on the bed as much as he could in his bandages, jostling the teddy bear his stepmom had dropped off while he was passed out as he did so. “Hey, well, I’m sure everyone back at school will be happy to see you doin’ well.”

Jeremy huffed out his own laugh – shaky, but genuine. “Ah, um… thanks,” he said. He grabbed his own teddy bear, one Christine had bought him and Michael had brought in the day prior, and looked as if he was going to walk away when something gave him pause.  He fiddled with his hands for a second, looking everywhere but at Rich, before asking hesitantly, “Is there, uh, anything you want me to relay? Tell everyone at school?”

Rich would be lying if he said he wasn’t constantly going over what he wanted to say to all his friends when he finally got released – if he had any friends left by that point.  He chuckled self-consciously, staring at his broken shoulder’s sling intently to keep Jeremy from seeing the anxiety on his face. “Uh, I dunno,” he shrugged with the shoulder that he could actually move, “Just… that I’m sorry?”

He almost missed the way Jeremy’s face softened, pity clear as day in his eyes. “Course, dude,” he shifted the bear in his hands, the bag on his back, and took one last glance around the room, “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Whatever you say,” Rich replied with an eyeroll of his own; it wasn’t likely he’d be out of the hospital before Christmas break, so he knew it would be months before he’d see anyone from their class, including Jeremy.

Or at least, that was what he had _assumed_.  It hadn’t even crossed his mind that Jeremy might have meant he intended on visiting Rich in the hospital over the course of his stay.  But that’s _exactly_ what Jeremy had meant.

He came often – more often than Rich’s father, though he didn’t expect otherwise – and sometimes he brought along Michael, or Christine, or even Brooke, one time.  Jenna Rolan came around on her own, spending most of the visit texting on her phone and talking _at_ Rich, but she also brought with her some candy from the convenience store next to her apartment, so he was grateful.

Jake never came.

Still, the company of his other peers - whoever they may have been and whatever their relationship prior to all of this shit had been – made his stay infinitely better.  The physical therapy was grueling, as he relearned how to walk on legs that were stiff and scarred; he underwent blood tests and bronchoscopy as the doctors kept an eye on how much oxygen was in his body and if his lungs were holding up; and after three weeks of wearing a cast for his shoulder, he had to start a _second_ round of physical therapy to make sure the joint didn’t become irreparably damaged.  His psychiatrist was insufferable as well, grilling him endlessly about what led him to starting the fire.

He was discharged on December 20th, exactly fifty days after being hospitalized.  He was informed that his physical therapy wasn’t _close_ to finished, that he’d have to come back to the hospital multiple times a week to continue with it; he was also given an inhaler, which they firmly warned him was _not_ for emergency use, but instead to keep any minor chest pain at bay.

His stepmom was at work when he was discharged (though she sent him an excited, if somewhat vague, text message expressing how she couldn’t wait to see him that night), and his father was unreachable as always, so Michael agreed to give him a ride back to his house.  He seemed like he wanted to say something as Rich piled into the passenger seat of his shitty P.T. Cruiser, but the exhausted, disheveled look on Rich’s face must have thankfully discouraged him.  They drove in merciful silence, Rich resting his head on the window of the car as they went.

The first thing he did upon arriving to his empty house was _bathe_ , in his _own bathtub_ , with his own shampoo.  He heeded all the doctors’ instructions, about keeping the temperature lukewarm, and being gentle as he washed, out of what he told himself was self-preservation and not obedience.  The second thing he did was cut his hair, which had grown matted and long over the last month and a half.  The locks of red fell away, onto the dirty bathroom floor.  He didn’t bother to throw the hair away, instead moving onto the third thing on his agenda – sleeping.

The majority of the next two days were spent sleeping, actually – the doctors had allowed him until December 26th before he had to return for bloodwork and therapy – interrupted only once by somebody knocking at the door.  When Rich opened it, he was genuinely shocked to find Jake standing there, looking incredibly bashful and holding a paper Old Navy bag.

“Jake! What,” Rich exclaimed, crossing his arms out of defensive instinct, “What are you, uh, doing here?”

“Um,” stammered Jake; it became immediately obvious to Rich that he hadn’t expected this question, “Well, I – first, I wanted to bring you _this_ ,” he shook the bag in his hands as an unnecessary explanation, “It’s, uh, a Christmas gift. I brought it now because I wasn’t sure if we could get together on Christmas day itself, y’know.”

Rich found himself genuinely touched by that thought, and also a little bit alarmed at how soon the holiday would be arriving – it was only another three days.  His only plan for the 25th had been more sleeping.  “I, uh, well, I wanted to see you, too,” Jake cut through Rich’s internal thoughts; before he could say anything to this new, equally touching statement, Jake huffed anxiously, “And I know! I know I didn’t come and see you in the hospital, and I’m sorry.”

“You’re…” the combination of exhaustion, both physical and mental, and confusion made Rich’s head spin for a moment; he scanned Jake’s face for any clue as to what he should say next, “You’re sorry?”

“Yeah,” Jake sighed, guilt finally settling into his features; his shoulders drooped and his eyes flickered to inspect the doorframe intently, “I know I shouldn’t have ghosted on you like that.  At first I was so busy with my physical therapy – long story,” he interjected at the obvious shock on Rich’s face – why was _Jake_ in physical therapy? “But then I was just.” He waffled a second, trying to find the words, “Too embarrassed.  I didn’t know what I was going to say to you.” He looked forlorn for another second, before his face lit up, like he’d just remembered something important, “And I _was_ angry, for a little bit.”

Rich’s heart sunk to the pits of his stomach, blood running cold.  Jake plowed on without noticing Rich’s dread. “But then Michael, I think is his name, explained everything to me and I… well,” he shrugged, “I honestly don’t understand it all that much? It all sounded like a particularly dramatic episode of Star Trek, really.  But… all I _need_ to understand is that what happened wasn’t really your faul-,”

“I’m sorry!” Rich blurted out, only slightly annoyed by his lisp getting in the way of his apology, “God, bro, I – I am _so,_ so sorry, I never meant for any of that to happen.  What the fuck.  I burned your house down.”

And Jake laughed, honest-to-God _laughed_ , as if Rich hadn’t committed arson. “I hope you aren’t just now realizing that, dude,” he said.  Rich wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, demand to know how on earth he could be so _casual_ about all of this.  “It’s cool, apology already accepted.  I know it was your… Squid, or whatever, that made you do it.”

Rich didn’t think he could stand correcting Jake on how, no, _he_ had made the choice to burn the house down, all of the shitty things he had done were all _him,_ so instead he said, “SQUIP. It’s called the SQUIP.”

“Right, yeah,” Jake said in the exact tone of voice he used whenever he was pretending to understand something he was bound to forget fifteen seconds later; it was more comforting and familiar than Rich would ever admit, “Uh, anyways, bro – do you think I could hang here for a bit? We can chill, catch up?”

And while part of Rich wanted to say yes, _please God yes let’s just go back to the way it was,_ an even larger part of Rich wanted to go back to his room and pass out alone again.  He was dead tired, filled with an ache that clung to his skin and went straight through to his bones.

His hesitation must have shown on his face, because Jake laughed again – quieter, and shyer, “If you’re not up to it, man, just say so.  You’ve been through a _lot_ , you don’t have to let me into your house.”

Rich faltered for another second, before simply saying, “Sorry.”

Jake shrugged his apology off with the wave of a hand, eyes rolling fondly, “It’s cool, dude, I already said. But, uh, here,” he shoved the bag towards Rich, who took it after another beat of hesitation, “And… Michael said you’d need a ride to physical therapy later this week.  I have my driver’s license, and the doctors gave me the okay to start driving again, so – just call me if you need me, alright?”

Rich gave his assent almost instantly, and then Jake bid him farewell, and he was on his own.  He dug through the bag Jake had given him to find a book – something called ‘A Tsar of Love and Techno’ – and a large, red sweatshirt, like the kind Jake always wore.  There was an envelope, as well, which seemed bulky and strained.  When Rich opened it, he discovered this was because two different cards had been shoved into it – one was a Merry Christmas card, the other reading _Get Well Soon!_ Nearly everyone from the SQUIP incidents had signed them – Jake, Jeremy, Michael, Christine, Jenna, Brooke, even _Chloe_.

He wiped the happy tears that had started to burn his eyes away and took his presents up to his bedroom, where he promptly placed the cards into the Merrell’s shoebox, alongside all his childhood photos.  When he fell back asleep, he rested better than he had in a long time.

Four days later, he ended up calling Jake to drive him to his physical therapy.  This became their new routine – Rich got to recuperate in his house when he was tired and moody, and catch up with his friend during the short car rides.  This routine only ended up being broken towards the very end of winter break, as Rich realized he’d have to return to school soon.

Jake dropped him off at his house as usual, but as Rich opened the passenger side door, he impulsively asked, “Do you wanna come inside?”

Jake managed to look surprised for a moment, before grinning.  “Of course, man,” he said, already sidling out of the driver’s seat.

When they entered Rich’s house, it was empty.  He had been expecting this, but Jake, obviously, had not, because he felt the need to ask, “Where are your folks?  I mean, I know your mom works, but…”

“Ha,” Rich let out a tired, ragged breath, trying his best to play the emptiness off, “My dad’s probably at a bar, as _always._ ”  Jake blinked at him, expression morphing instantly into something vaguely sad; Rich faltered.  “That came off… _way_ more bitter than I meant it to,” he amended, and Jake gave a short nod, “Sorry.  He’s not really around a lot.”

“I get that,” Jake said, voice quiet, unsure.  He shook his head after a second of disconcerting silence and tried to shoot a smile Rich’s way, “Wanna go chill in your room?”

Rich nodded rapidly, and so they moved to the upstairs; Rich sat on his bed while Jake paced around the room, the two of them making slow and easy conversation.  Jake was fiddling with the things messily strewn on the top of Rich’s dresser when he picked up something flat and silvery.  “What’s this?” he asked, turning what Rich now recognized as a CD case in his hands.  “Small Leaks Sink Ships?” he read from the case, and Rich felt his face go hot.

“Uh,” he started to explain, getting up from the bed to wander over to where Jake stood, “I burned myself that mix when I was, like, thirteen.  It’s just some music.”

“Oh, sweet,” Jake smiled a little bit, and glanced around Rich’s simultaneously messy and barren bedroom, “You have a CD player, right? Let’s put it on.”

“No, no, you,” before Rich could stop himself, he plucked the disc from Jake’s hands.  He wasn’t sure why he felt so queasy at the prospect of playing his own music around the other boy, but he _was_ , “You don’t wanna listen to my shitty music taste.”

“Dude,” Jake barked out a laugh, “You let me play Kesha in my car, I’ve no room to judge.  ‘Sides, I’ve heard your music before, I’m pretty sure.”

“You’ve heard the SQUIP’s music,” Rich insisted, and an unreadable look flickered across Jake’s face.  With a deep breath, Rich braced himself to say the words he’d been dancing around all winter break, “I’m not. I’m not that kid you met in Sophomore year.  You honestly don’t know that much about me, and – and I don’t know if you’d want to.”

Silence settled over them instantly; Rich kept his gaze set decidedly on Jake’s shoes.  He was just about to apologize when Jake let out a very anxious chuckle.

“Calm down, man,” he said, flipping the CD case in his hands subconsciously, “That’s not true at all. I’d love – I mean, I’m your friend.  I’m not gonna stop being your friend over your music taste or some dumb shit like that.”  He walked over to the music player, an old and battered thing, and put the disc in before Rich could protest further.  Once the first track was playing, Jake turned back to Rich, standing sheepishly beside the dresser still. “So, how about you tell me more about _you_? The real Richard Goranski.”

And Rich laughed, despite himself, despite the nerves nestled deep in his gut, and did exactly as Jake asked, who didn’t leave until one in the morning that night.

Returning to school was, very predictably, difficult.  People whispered about him in the hallways, teachers gave him the stink-eye and called him a delinquent behind his back, and all the walking made his _whole body_ hurt.

His first day was dragging on and on; he was wearing the hoodie Jake had given him for Christmas, and cradling his history textbook to his chest as he descended the stairs to get to his locker before heading to the old stairwell for lunch.  He had to cross through the cafeteria as he did so, limping a little because of the tenderness of his scars, when a voice called out to him.

“Yo, Rich! Get your ass over here!”

He spun around as quickly as he could, and spotted none other than Michael Mell waving at him from a table occupied by Jeremy, Jake, and Christine.  After a moment’s confusion, Rich made his way over to his friends.  “What… what’s up?” he asked, glancing from person to person.  Michael and Christine exchanged a bemused look.

“You gonna sit with us or not?” Jake asked in lieu of answering Rich, who was starting to mentally berate himself for somehow neglecting to remember that he had people he could sit with even if his classes had been lonely and hellish so far.

“Alright, yeah,” he said, adjusting the heavy textbook in his arms, “Let me just, like, grab my lunch and put this away, okay?”  When everyone at the table nodded, Rich suppressed a giddy smile, and turned back around to head to his locker.

That was what made everything bearable – his friends.  Sure, he might have had less of them now, but the ones he did retain were genuinely more likeable than any he had made during his time with the SQUIP.  There was something utterly refreshing about being honest with other people, and knowing they were being honest with you.  Michael gave him recommendations for retro video games near constantly; Christine loved to talk to him about Shakespeare, and Oscar Wilde, and various other playwrights; Jeremy and him became unlikely study partners, and spent most of their shared math class exchanging notes and exhausted glares. Jenna kept him up to date on all of the gossip, as usual, but from what gossip he received from other sources, was fiercely protective of him should the infamous arson incident be brought up by somebody from outside their little ragtag group of friends.  Brooke tutored him in history class, and loved to invite him over to her house for movie marathons and manicures, which Chloe would sometimes tag along to with a lot of disingenuous griping.

And, of course, there was _Jake._   Jake, who drove him anywhere he needed to be without complaint.  Jake, who carried his backpack whenever his injuries were making him extra uncomfortable.  Jake, who laughed at even his worst jokes, and let him take ages to pronounce words with the letter ‘s’ in them, and never made snide comments about his absent father.

Jake, who Rich had been secretly in love with for nearly two years straight.

And who sometimes – though Rich couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just wishful thinking – even seemed like he felt the same way.

“I’m gonna put on some music, a’ight?” Jake asked one day as they driving; they had just stopped at a pharmacy to pick up some of Rich’s prescription.  Rich nodded by way of answering, and then Jake pressed some buttons on the console, and the unmistakable sound of a Cascada song began playing through the speakers.

Rich couldn’t stop himself from cackling, loud and unabashed; when he snorted involuntarily, he threw a hand up to cover his mouth, trying to muffle the last of his giggles with his palm.  Jake gave him a sidelong glance, amusement painted brightly on his face, and said, “I know you’re like, embarrassed by your laugh, dude, but you shouldn’t be; it’s nice.”

Rich tried to ignore the way his entire face began to burn; just let out another wheezy, ugly laugh and replied, “Dude, you _cannot_ say shit like that to me while ‘Everytime We Touch’ is playing.  That’s too much, even for me.”

It was Jake’s turn to laugh, but it was an oddly restrained thing; his eyes flickered over to the passenger seat again, where Rich was desperately pretending he wasn’t flustered. “I mean it,” he said eventually, voice entirely too earnest, “you have a nice laugh.”

The burning sensation spread down Rich’s face and into his neck, and he tried to clear his throat.  “Eyes on the road, Dillinger,” he said tersely, and Jake, with an affectionate but exasperated eyeroll, let the topic drop.

It was shit like _that_ that had Rich wondering if his one-sided crush wasn’t so one-sided, but he didn’t want to get his hopes up.  He counted himself lucky to have Jake as a friend still, despite all the shit he’d pulled, and he wasn’t going to push that luck with his teenage pining.

It was hard to ignore his feelings, however, when Jake was nearly always around him.  In some ways, Rich was grateful the only class they shared was AP Biology – it gave him a brief respite from the light-headed, giddy feeling he got whenever he was around the other.  On the other hand, he was _terrible_ at science, and was only in the class because the SQUIP helped him get into it so he could spend _more time_ with Jake, and now he was practically failing out of it.

After receiving a particularly disastrous test back, Jake found him stifling tears by his locker.  “Woah, hey,” he said, placing a hand delicately on Rich’s shoulder to grab his attention; the latter just sniffled grossly into his hoodie sleeve, “Dude, you alright?  What’s up?”

“It’s stupid,” muttered Rich, flinching at the sound of his own _stupid_ voice, failed test crumpling in his bunched-up hands, “It’s – I failed that test, like, _super hard_ , and the only reason I’m in this fucking class is because of that fucking computer and -,”

“Hey, hey, stop,” Jake floundered for a moment, his other hand finding its way onto Rich’s other shoulder; he glanced up into Jake’s face then, saw the worry shining in his eyes, “Don’t… I can help you study, if you need it, you know this class is the one I’m best at.”

“God, no, you don’t,” Rich stopped to wipe at his tear-stained face, “You don’t gotta do that for me, you already drive my ass around town and everything.”

“That’s cause I’m your _friend,_ bro,” Jake insisted, a tender smile appearing on his face, “I do that shit because I want to _help_ you.  Let me help you.”

Rich considered protesting some more, but then he glanced down at the paper in his hand, saw the bright red ’20% - SEE ME AFTER CLASS’ written at the top, and nodded jerkily.  “Okay,” he said, voice tight and reedy, “Alright, okay.”

The two started spending _even more_ time together, holed up in Jake’s bedroom, going over flashcards and textbooks and worksheets.  It worked, though – Rich’s grades were never perfect, but they got significantly better with the aid of Jake, who shrugged every single one of Rich’s desperate expressions of gratitude off like none of it mattered.  To him, none of it _did._   How was Rich not supposed to fall head-over-heels for someone so disgustingly selfless?

“Okay,” Jake started, adjusting himself on his beanbag chair.  In his hand he held one of the many notecards they’d been going over that afternoon, “At which level of protein structure are interactions between the side chains – y’know, the R groups – most important?”

Rich’s eyebrows knit together as he took a moment to think, very carefully.  He knew it was either secondary or tertiary, but had no earthly idea which one.  Deciding to take an educated guess, he blurted out, “Tertiary,” and Jake’s face split into a proud grin.

“Yeah, bro!  Got it in one,” he declared, and Rich felt a sense of triumph wash over him.  Jake shuffled the cards in his hands for a second, “Alright, the next one says -,”

There was a lyrical, ringing sound throughout the house as the doorbell was rung.  Jake’s head shot up immediately, and he broke out into an even bigger smile.  “Chinese food is here!”

Before Rich could a word in edge-wise, Jake had taken off down the stairs of his (new, not burnt-to-a-crisp) house.  When he returned to the bedroom, he was holding two brown paper bags full of food.  He plopped himself down onto the ground again, and tore the bags open to distribute their takeout order between them.  Rich took his order of sweet-and-sour chicken as well as his fried rice, while Jake neglected his dumplings for the tiny, crinkly bag of wonton chips that came with every meal.

“Bro, slow down,” Rich snickered as Jake wolfed the snacks down, “You’re gonna choke.”

“But they’re _so_ good,” is what Rich thought Jake said, though it was nearly incomprehensible through the food in his mouth; he was stretched out and leaning against the beanbag, hair disheveled, sweatshirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows to show off the few beauty marks he had around his wrists, and _God,_ Rich really wanted to kiss him.

He really, _really_ wanted to kiss him, and the only way he could think to make this happen was to ask ‘Can I kiss you?’ but no way was he even going to _try_ to say that.

“Dude, what’s up,” Jake said once he’d finally swallowed his mouthful; at Rich’s confused mutter, he continued, “You’ve been staring at me for the last few seconds, you alright?”

It was at that moment that Rich realized there was an infinite number of things he wanted to say to Jake – about how he really was sorry about Jake’s house, and also about his criminal parents, and how he wished they had met under better circumstances or that Rich could be a better person, and how he was bisexual, how he was so _scared_ of being bisexual.

“Dude?” Jake asked again, voice a little bit sharper with nerves; Rich’s vision refocused on his face, on the pimple on his nose and the flecks of green in his eyes and the little crease between his eyebrows and-,

 _Fuck it,_ Rich decided.

“Can I kiss you?” he blurted out before he could think better of it, before he could get caught up on his lisp or the feeling of dread deep in his stomach.

The longest moment of Rich’s _life_ happened then, forget staying in the hospital, as the two just stared at each other in shock.  Rich was just about to excuse himself from Jake’s house forever when the latter smiled – dimple more prominent than ever – and nodded.

Rich didn’t hesitate then, not even for a second.  He sprang forward, grabbed Jake’s face between his sweaty, calloused hands, and kissed him hard.  It was a little bit awkward, with Jake sprawled underneath him on top of a sagging beanbag chair, and Jake’s lips tasted like deep fried Chinese food and cinnamon chapstick, but it felt so _right_ , with Jake’s hand pressed to the nape of Rich’s neck, threaded through his short hair.

When they broke apart, both much later and far too soon, the first words out of Rich’s mouth were, “I’m bi.”

Jake blinked owlishly up at him, before breaking into peals of hysterical laughter; it was absurd, but contagious, and Rich started laughing, too.  The first words out of Jake’s mouth were, “Can I kiss you again?” and Rich just nodded, too out of breath and giddy to formulate even the single word _yes_.

They started dating not too long after that, to absolutely _none_ of their friend’s surprise.  Christine congratulated them, Jenna thanked them for helping her win _several_ bets, and Michael jokingly invited them to double-dates with Jeremy just to watch his boyfriend get flustered.  It was the most comfortable Rich had been in his entire life, and he could hardly believe he’d done it without the SQUIP telling him what to do.

“Do you ever miss it?” he asked Jeremy once as they were walking through the halls after math class; his friend glanced at him, bemused, “The SQUIP. Do you miss it?”

“Oh,” said Jeremy, words stilted by his surprise, “No.  Not really.  I mean,” he wavered, hands clenching nervously around his books, “Sometimes… sometimes it was nice, y’know, to have a voice to help you through the real bad anxiety and the self – self-loathing, but…” he inhaled deeply and looked Rich right in the eyes, as if to prove he wasn’t lying (Rich knew he wasn’t), “It was awful, and I’m glad it’s gone.”

Rich nodded – he had basically predicted such an answer.  They reached his locker, which he opened after only two tries; as he piled his textbooks into it, Jeremy asked, “Do… do _you_ miss it?”

And he thought about it – long and hard.  Thought about the confidence, and the work-out routines, and the looks of respect tinged with fear he would get from other students in the hallway.  And then he thought about listening to bubblegum pop in the passenger seat of his boyfriend’s ride, and helping Christine practice her lines for play, and sharing marble soda in the basement of Jenna Rolan’s house as all eight of them watched horror flicks together.

“Nah,” he said, smiling widely, “Not one bit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lot of the beginning of this chapter was inspired by red-streaked, a cute lil richjake oneshot here on ao3!! u can find it pretty easily in the tag , its by the_impardis. it really helped me figure out how i wanted to present rich and jake's reunion and stuff, which i was dreading.
> 
> Also this is really important so u all need to know it: based on photo evidence of the cast of BMC , jake is nearly 6'5"
> 
> anyways THANK U ALL FOR READING!!! so many people left such sweet kind comments on the other two chapters and it really, really means a lot to me, so thank u all so much!
> 
> i might do a follow-up fic, a really short one, from jake's perspective, just kinda about rich and their relationship post-everything, maybe one that takes place senior year? idk. either way, i hope yall enjoyed!!! see u next time


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